


ASCEND // ACCELERATE.

by trickstered



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M, Minor Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Minor Jake English/Dirk Strider, Minor Rose Lalonde/Kanaya Maryam, Other, Suicidal Thoughts, The Homestuck Epilogues, The Homestuck Epilogues: Meat, ascending, ultimate self
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 05:57:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21453133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickstered/pseuds/trickstered
Summary: Dirk Strider is drowning, and there is no turning back.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 51





	1. ACT ONE.

**Author's Note:**

> I have basically had this in my brain since the Epilogue's, and now I have exorcised the Dirk demon. Thank you to Shadow ([sugarglassy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorch/pseuds/sugarglassy)) for being my moral support and sounding board for cursed theories. Thank you, also, for changing some of my words and fixing my typo's. U a real one. 
> 
> If you'd like, I have a [PLAYLIST](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/44BGXOcWPzCcVMMeGc0p4N) you can listen to while reading this! And you can also follow me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/wandkinds) for more cursed takes.

This is how it starts:

= >ACT ONE: 

Be you. 

No, You.

The distinction is important; you become the main character of your own self-flagellation.

It’s small at first, as these things often are. It is a microscopic moment on a day with little to no significance in the grand, unfolding narrative that is your life. You haven’t seen daylight in at least a week, so preoccupied have you been with work. You do this when your frustrations with Jake get too much. A more well-adjusted individual might communicate their issues, but you’re tired of words getting you goddamn nowhere. No one could blame you for that. It’s hard to say what kind of day it is, other than that you have been working for hours, and maybe that you started during the night rather than in the morning. You’re sitting at your work bench, hand reaching for a wrench that isn’t there. Seconds before, you had been carefully adjusting the joints on your latest kill bot, wrench in hand. You palm the surface, check the floor, and then you find it on the other side of the bench, turned away from you.

You think: weird. You reach for it, and then turn back to the killbot and find that the joint looks different. Different in a way that is tiny — design improvements you don’t recall making. It’s been a long week. You decide you’re just tired. Working too many hours with Jake tends to do that. You tell yourself that and decide to finish up and take a fucking nap.

The ghost-memories start around the time everyone starts to drift apart. Roxy and Calliope move further away, Jane gets to work on becoming the next Jeff Bezos, Jake and you —

You’re going through your second big break up. It’s harder than the first, because you’re contractually obliged to work together for three more seasons. Every day is a test on your patience, because Jake keeps trying to be nice. You just want to be angry at him. You just want him to be angry at you. You want to act like two normal dudes going through a normal break up. You want to be on your own, aware that venting is not necessarily an option. Everyone must be tired of you and Jake and how turbulent you both are. You know that you are. Spending time alone, working away in your workshop seems like a decent way to focus on something else. You get two weeks off, and then you’re back to filming. Jake doesn’t even have the decency to look any less energetic.

The relationship drama is hardly to blame, but you’re on set prepping for a thirteen hour day of filming when you have what feels like an outer body experience: you’re polishing your sword when Jake comes over to you, says some absolutely incomprehensible nonsense that you used to find endearing, threads his fingers through your hair and kisses you. It’s the kind of kiss you used to get as a good luck or missed you. You blink, heart pounding, your mind yo-yoing between anger and hope. When you blink again, Jake isn’t there. He’s almost ten feet away, examining ammunition with the crew, not even aware of you.

You think you might be having some sort of breakdown and resolve to beat the shit out of Jake during the first take of your strife. Neither you or Jake like to rehearse them, despite pleas from producers. This isn’t WWE; you don’t fake fights, especially not on television. The stage, today, is some kind of bogus Lara Croft themed set. You daren’t think how much money Jake has sunk into set design, especially to the calibre of which you’re now working with. Jake stands a solid ten feet above you, perched on a cavern cliff. The lights are all on him: a bright, shining hero, while you’re backlit for dramatic flare. You point a finger at him, he begins a long monologue which makes exactly no fucking sense. Before he finishes, you lunge, sword in hand. He lets out a comically startled yelp as he bounces out of your way. The camera zooms in on his ass, and you know from his experience that his shorts are absolutely riding up the cheeks. Everything about this moment is absolutely horrible, more so when you parry and lunge again, only to have Jake duck and kick your legs out from under you. You catch the dirt with your hands, and turn quick enough to instead catch a fist to your nose.

Jake hops back on his heels and begins to hope from one foot to another, fisticuffs up and ready. You wipe blood from your nose onto the back of your hand and bare your teeth, ditching your sword to middle tackle Jake to the ground. He goes down with a thump, and you press your elbow into his throat. He does not stop grinning, and the oblivious delight distracts you long enough for him to counter elbow you in the side. Jake has at least six pounds on you; it’s easy for him to push you off while you’re in pain. You get back to your feet, as does he, and you both circle one another before he reaches for his pistol.

He kicks your ass and laughs about it for the cameras, holding you up with an arm slung under your armpits. You’re no less angry, or any less in love with him.

These moments of mismatched reality keep happening, though they’re not always in real time.

Jane brings you lunch one afternoon, after you’ve ghosted her calls one too many times. You’re thankful for the effort and privately grateful that someone recognised your radio silence. She stays for almost six hours while you talk. She tells you about the company’s expansions, you tell her you think you might be burning out on Jake and yours’ current TV venture. You go back and forth, catching up, learning the subtle in’s and out’s of how she operates now as CEO. Out of all of you, Jane seems to be the most put together. It doesn’t shock you.

Everything’s fine until she asks about what you’ll do about your burn out. She asks if you’ll consider more time off and you say: “I’ve got some time to think about it.” Jane doesn’t seem to understand, so you elaborate: “Basically, since Jake broke his goddamn leg last week, all I’ve got is time. It’s really just a matter of — “You stop, because Jane is looking at you funny. “What?”

She’s holding a teacup, and very gently she puts in down. Her brows are furrowed when she says, very carefully: “Jake hasn’t broken his leg, Dirk.”

You lift an eyebrow. “Of course he has. He broke it dodging those giant, pointless rocks he insisted on. I had to dig him out from under a sixteen-tonne boulder.”

“Dirk, I saw him yesterday. He was fine.” She looks concerned when she speaks, as if considering that maybe she missed something. You want to contest that she most definitely did miss something. You open your mouth, though you can’t remember what you wanted to say. A splitting headache starts to form above your eyebrow, spreading fast across the front of your forehead and along to your temples. In your head you see two memories: Jake getting caught by a giant, useless boulder, and another where he dodges, triumphant. Another sixteen of the same moment fills your brain, all different outcomes. Your mouth forms a pained grimace and you see Jane move as if to reach out to you. “Dirk,” Jane is saying. “Are you okay?”

You think you should say no, but you say yes.

-

Over the next few weeks you become frequently plagued by migraines. You have dreams upon fucking dreams of timelines that mean jack shit to you. You dream of every conceivable outcome of your life before the game, during the game, after the game and the last ten years on Earth C in all its variants. In the months after that, you start dreaming during the day too. The reality and the fictional overlap and you have to start navigating your life more carefully. Real becomes unforgivably difficult to separate from unreal and you begin to second guess almost everything around you. You start checking things three or four times, just to be sure. For two weeks, before the day dreams start, you sleep less and less to avoid the confusion.

You become spectacularly comical at work, and have to lie that you’re trying a new performance angle. In a moment of weakness, you message Rose, the only objective person you can think of, for some much needed direction. You can’t trust yourself, and it scares you.

> timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 16:20
> 
> TT: Hypothetically, if someone were experiencing hyper-realistic dreams to an abnormally trippy degree, what would be the best way of separating them from fact.  
TT: To clarify, this is not about me. I’d like you to settle a bet.  
TT: It seems a rather boring wager, but I’ll bite.  
TT: Hello, by the way.  
TT: Pleasantries aren’t really our style, are they?  
TT: Clearly not.  
TT: Nice to see you that you are alive, though. Dave has been practically maudlin that he hasn’t been able to eat free pizza in, what was it? ‘over a month rose’?  
TT: Rose.  
TT: Perhaps you could call him? Let him know that you haven’t fallen down a mine shaft, and save me the future hindrance of cleaning pizza grease from my pillows?  
TT: Can we get back on track?  
TT: I’m afraid not until I have it in writing that you will put Dave out of his misery.  
TT: Fine.  
TT: Touchy, for someone whom this conversation is almost definitely not about.  
TT: I would think keeping a journal or two would help. One for the dream memories, and another to document the day lived. Ideally they would be as meticulous as possible, with no detail spared.  
TT: Reasonable.  
TT: Comparing the two might not offer explicit clarity, but at the very least there should be enough of a difference between the two to know which is completely cuckoo bananas and which is not.  
TT: Additionally, there is a second option.  
TT: You could always see a therapist.  
TT: I mean the general you, of course. : )!  
TT: Uh huh. Right.  
TT: Being unable to distinguish dream from reality may be a sign of a larger issue. Stress related, perhaps. Since this is not about you, I won’t suggest that you see a professional. Or that you maintain regular sleeping hours, etc.  
TT: Very subtle.  
TT: Anyway, you more or less proved me right.  
TT: Oh, I’m sure I did.  
TT: Hm.  
TT: A pleasure as always, Rose. I have to go.  
TT: Likewise. Good luck with your dream journals.  
TT: And call Dave!
> 
> timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]

Journals: just the most Rose solution you could possibly think of, besides lying down on her couch and retelling your dreams to her in person. You ignore the fact that you overlooked it, or that Rose’s perception is spot on as usual. You can keep journals. In fact, meticulously documenting all the shit you dream and do sounds exactly like the kind of exposition you need in your life. You have some, somewhere. Blank notebooks for work, both on screen and in the workshop. Filling them should be easy enough; after all, you’ve always had a way with words.

(You’re not sure when it gets easier to decipher dream from reality, just that it does. For a while.)

-

Then you and Jake start sleeping together again, and it all goes to shit.

More specifically, you and he start it over again and Jake tells you that he doesn’t think that he’s ready for a commitment.

A thought comes to you: Committing to anything might just kill him stone fuckin’ dead. Say the word relationship and jesus wept, we’ll have a himbo shaped corpse on our hands. 

The thought is vaguely not yours, but it’s close enough that it might as well be. Besides, it’s right.

You understand why. You can be a little intense, and Jake can be a little airheaded. You’re both the absolute fucking worst at communicating for two people who never shut the hell up. You say yes because you miss him, and you’re genuinely worried that maybe something is very wrong with you. So wrong that you might not get another chance. Getting laid does put you in a better mood, as it turns out. Sometimes Jake doesn’t awkwardly scurry off after you’ve fucked either, and you sleep better with him at your back.

You start to get more of those not-you-thoughts. Not specifically about Jake. These little cross-universe anecdotes come to you at what feels like unprompted situations. You’re eating pizza with Dave in the comfort of your work shop for one of them. His phone buzzes frequently while you’re catching up; you don’t have to peek to know it’s Karkat. Dave’s got this dopey, happy shit-eating grin on his face, thumbs flying fast over his phone as he responds and nods along to what you’re saying.

All you’ve ever wanted was for him to be happy.

I guess happiness is being too chicken shit to get down with a bottom bitch boy alien, but who are we to judge, crosses your mind in a tone that is distinctively not you. You frown, eyes whiting out as a searing pain crashes through your head, temple to temple. It feels like your skull is splitting in five different places, and you’re not sure if you’re seeping out of it or if something is seeping in. When your vision comes back, there is a flickering adult figure reading over Dave’s shoulder, glasses like yours and a black hat slouching over his hair. He looks up to meet your eyes, and his mouth turns up into the faintest smirk.

His mouth forms the words: we’re all you. You hear it in your head: that wasn’t me and we’re all you, on loop. You feel cold.

Dave looks up at you with his grin in place and for a moment, his face is superimposed over Bro’s. You feel a little dizzy. The grin begins to fade, and Bro flickers out of existence. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “You good,” asks Dave, pocketing his phone. You already know what the text chain says. You’ve seen it, somehow. You can still see it, if you concentrate.

“I’m fine,” you say, and place your half-eaten pizza slice down. “Too many late nights this week.”

Dave’s grin is back, though a shadow of its former self. “Ha ha ha,” he says, verbalising each ha individually. “I feel that.”

You feel the ghost of a hand squeezing your shoulder and barely glance down at it to know it’s cladded in fingerless gloves. You’re too soft with him, says a voice inside your head. A thought that even now, is not distinguishable from your own: you think for a moment that you agree, and feel you stomach starting to turn.

Stop, you think, and discreetly try to shrug your shoulder away. Dave’s watching you, and you say, as apologetically as you can: “Hey, do you mind if we cut it short this time? I think I inhaled some paint earlier while I was testing out colours on the new bot.”

Dave’s face is carefully neutral before he allows it to be disappointed, and you feel – fuck, you’re not sure if what you’re feeling is even you. You feel guilty. That must be you. You can’t imagine this souped up older parody of you has ever felt guilty about anything. Your head begins to throb again. “Sure, bro,” he says, and you barely hear it.

“Take the pizza. For Vantas.”

Dave nods, and you hear the hollowed-out sound of a ghost clicking its tongue. You will him away as hard as you can. Dave leaves with the pizza box and you turn to round on what has to be a goddamn hallucination and find that Bro is flanked by three sixteen year old clones, two dressed in god tier pyjamas and one in black sweats and a black tank top. You close your eyes as the headache grows even worse, and try harder to will them away.

You remember four deaths like they were your own. You breathe out through your nose and taste blood on your next inhale. Your nose is bleeding.

Is he too soft on him? This is one the god tier yous, flickering in and out of existence. You had forgotten about that, on account of losing your entire shit. You press an old rag to your nose, tilt your head back and shut your eyes tight.

“What the fuck is happening,” you groan into the heel of your palm, pressing the rag harder to stem the flow.

Bro inclines his head to you. You don’t even need to open your eyes to see it. I think you know.

The Dirk in sweatpants folds his arms. You’re compartmentalising the burden of taking on memories by creating splinter selves from those memories. Smart. Gives you time to process. Adapt.

The other Dirk in godtier pyjamas has his head turned towards the killbot. Adapting to what though?

Bro’s mouth fixes itself into a thin line. The next step, maybe.

“The next – the next fucking step to what? Losing my mind?” This is you. At least, you think it is. The headache begins to worsen even more, pain cracking along the bone.

All four of them share a round about glance with one another. You’re losing patience and dare to crack one eye open. Bro is looking at you, arms folded.

To perfection.

You don’t know which one of them says it – you’re too busy passing the fuck right out on your couch, head splitting open and nose bleeding down your front.

-

They grow in number. And because you’re you, they all stay with you. Just endless fucking yous, all of them hanging around your cerebral cortex rent free. Dealing with them is easier when you’re alone, so you start doing that when you can. If not for your contractual obligations, you’d be even more of a recluse. Dealing with them, and the memories, is a strain. They increase more and more each day, but you start to spread the burden out across all the dead and doomed Dirks like it’s Christmas. You get the hang of it. You cope.

Jane visits, though. At Jake’s behest, you think. You like the visits. You like that she makes the effort, because you sure as fuck cannot bring yourself make the effort with anyone else for the time being.

You try to see the bright side – you suddenly have so many goddamn sounding boards. You have eyes everywhere; you see every flaw in your mechanics. Sometimes there are so many goddamn Dirks that you lose patience, but sometimes there’s just enough to open your third eye blown fucking wide and start drawing up blueprints for things that might have otherwise been doomed to the furthest depths of your imagination. Sometimes you forget to be worried that the thoughts you have aren’t always yours. Sometimes it’s hard to figure out which of those they are.

They help with other things too, when the headaches aren’t pulling you inside out. Jane says she’s concerned about the political climate; worried that there’s not enough strong leadership. You’re inclined to agree: the last three presidents of the human kingdom have been soft as all fuck. Placid in every sense of the word.

(You see Bro nod out of the corner of your eye, the only one here while Jane speaks. A younger appears a little later, just turned thirteen. They talk amongst themselves while you try to navigate memories of a timeline where a drone took you out before you even got a chance to play SBURB properly.)

“My concern,” she says, rubbing her palms over her knees. “Is. Well.” She looks at you, as if hoping you can read her mind. You can’t, but you already know what she’s going to say. She’s said it to at least three other Dirks that you can think of, at different points in time. Timelines which might have been; that never will be. You don’t say this. “It’s just that .. I’m worried about the Troll population.”

The thirteen-year-old you has taken a seat next to you, listening. You suppose he’d have a vested interest in this. “Just the Troll population?”

Jane looks guilty as she nods. “It’s just, they’re so – you especially should know how … Oh, what’s the word?”

Volatile, says thirteen-year-old you. “Ambitious?” you say, instead.

She nods, grateful for a kinder word. “Exactly! And yes, Kanaya is quite lovely, and yes Karkat is harmless – but I’m concerned about the others in the -- oh what’s it called?”

“Hemospectrum.”

“Yes! I’m just worried – what if we end up with another Batter Witch?”

Valid.

You sit back. You would be a liar if you were to say that this particular thought hadn’t crossed your mind. You and Roxy especially, you think, would be more predisposed to erring on the side of wary. Of mistrust. Experience, after all, has not been kind to you. However, you are not an asshole, and so you say: “The carapacians had their fair share of hostile forces too, Jane.”

“Oh,” and she looks a little deflated. “I know.” You’re not sure she does, actually. “It’s a general worry.” You’re also not sure that it is. “I know humans haven’t exactly had a great track record either, but I just wish we had a harder line on how to prevent ... Extreme cases.” Jane is fiddling with the hem of her skirt, not meeting your eyes. You understand, of course, that perhaps Jane’s caution comes from a place of fear.

You move and sit beside her. A little clumsily, you reach for her hand. Jane is, and always has been, your most rational friend. The friend you have had most in common with since the beginning. She squeezes your hand and looks grateful. “I get where you’re coming from. You had her inside your head. She did something to you that was heinous and downright fucking cruel. You have a right to be angry about that.” Her eyes begin to well up. You continue: “You know I’m here for you, right? I’m aware that it is has been literal years, but you know you don’t have to sit and deal with this alone? There isn’t an expiration date on trauma, Jane.” You are aware that you sound vaguely like Rose; you are also aware of the irony.

“Oh, Dirk,” she says and throws her arms around you. You’ve never been especially good at hugging, but you make an effort for her while she sniffles into your shoulder.

Bro is behind you. You are aware of this almost immediately. You can feel him more than you can see him. He places a hand on your shoulder, and you sort of – blend, momentarily. You open your mouth to speak: “You’ve got a big heart, Jane. I’m pretty sure if anyone could introduce a policy that’s tough but kind, it would be you. Why don’t you run? Give these bozos a run for their money?”

Jane begins to pull away, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “I don’t think that would be appropriate –”

Bro squeezes your shoulder, and however impossible it is, you think you can feel it. “Oh, sure, you’ve got some kinks in your execution and phrasing here and there sure, but I can help you refine it. Politics is all about phrasing. It’s all about appealing to the masses. You’ve got appeal in spades. The people already like you, and more importantly, they respect you. Why wouldn’t they? We made them. Doesn’t it … Make sense, that one of us should get them back on track?”

She looks away for a moment. Long enough for you to know that she’s thought about this herself. “There’s almost two and a half years until the next election, Dirk.”

Bro lifts his hand. You think: what the hell are you doing and Bro answers she’s right: aliens are fucking whack. You find yourself shrugging and your mouth opening before you can stop it: “Then we’ve got time to plan.”

= > END ACT ONE.


	2. ACT TWO.

= > ACT TWO.

It’s a Friday night, just gone by eleven. You and Jake have wrapped up filming and he is nursing a shockingly red shiner with incredible enthusiasm. You think you might have dislocated a shoulder, which he offers to pop back into place for you. You’re dubious. Not just you, but the sixteen other yous who helped you win the fight.

Still, you follow him back to his trailer, let him cut your shirt off with his dopey, fumbling hands, and brace yourself as he forces it back into place. You don’t scream.

“Hoo nilly, my man! You took that like a champ!” He punctuates this by knocking his fist against your good arm. He leaves you to go rummage through his mini-fridge. You rub the sore arm absently and try to ignore his oblivious innuendo.

“Thanks,” you say, completely flat, and begin to move. Jake looks crushed, beer in hand.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Are you still holding a boner with me?”

At some point, you have to consider that he’s fucking with you. You make this clear with a pointed downturn of your mouth. Jake seems to wilt like a sad puppy and you feel the barest amount of satisfaction at that. “Yes,” you say, and begin to move again.

“Oh…” the beer is placed down, and he begins to wring his hands. “At least allow me to replace your shirt with one of my own. It looks awful silly with only one arm, my dear boy.” Dear boy. You aren’t special, you have to remind yourself of this. You find yourself nodding, anyway. You could pull off a one-armed shirt better than most, but even you have moments of weakness. Jake brightens almost immediately and turns to rake through his stuffed trailer suitcase for, what you hope is, a clean shirt. He emerges with a triumphant a-ha! In his hands, in a white shirt, plain except for the green, orange-hat wearing skull. One of your very first merch adventures. You accept it with some manner of reluctance. “Do you need a hand with getting that on, pal?”

You probably do. A lifetime of mistakes has led you to this moment, where you have to trust Jake English not to fuck your arm up again by putting clothes on you. What a twist, you think, completely flat. Who could have foreseen these events? “Yeah. Just to pull it over my head, I can get the arms in. Can you,” and you inhale sharply, “can you help me get this one off first?”

Jake looks positively soft, like seeing you vulnerable is a rare treat. “Of course, Dirk.”

You place the white shirt on your lap and extend your arms out. Jake lifts your torn one from the back, so hasty in his execution that it gets caught under an armpit. He apologises in quick, nervous bursts and you grunt. When it’s over your head, he’s far more careful in peeling it off your arms. When you look at him, he’s caught up his lip with his stupid, oversized teeth and has a red splotch of a blush over his cheeks and nose. It does something to your insides that you have learned to dislike.

For a moment, neither of you do anything. Jake bunches your shirt up in his hands, and has begun to crouch down. You sense a danger of sorts; a sense that something is about to happen, or that it already has. You know Jake is going to touch your hand before he does, and you know what he’s going to say.

“I hate that we’re not speaking, Dirk,” he says, sincere, and squeezes your hand. “I thought we had a good thing going, that we were back on track —“

“You were sleeping with other people.”

He looks stung. “The arrangement was —“

You move your hand away from his. “Not working for me.”

“Why?” he asks, looking so very lost.

You cannot believe this hapless idiot has the nerve to even ask. “You know why, Jake.” You don’t let him say anything else stupid. “You don’t want it, and I need space to move on. This — back and forth, it’s not me.”

Jake rests back on his haunches, defeated. You expect him to drop it, like he has in 9/10 other instances of this event. Instead, he says, voice quiet: “Then let’s try again. I miss you.” From the corner of your eye you see movement. Jake reaches for your hand again.

You breathe out, and in one movement you grab him by the front of his shirt, pull him forward and kiss him. When you pull away, he looks dazed. “No,” you say. “Now help me with my shirt so I can get the fuck out of here before I do something we’ll both regret.”

When you leave, there is a sixteen-year-old you standing by the trailer, arms folded and his mouth downturned. When you were sixteen, you didn’t imagine you and Jake would be here, struggling to maintain a friendship. You imagine it’s difficult, to be confronted with. Fuck, it’s difficult for you to confront.

The problem is us, he says, when you walk away. He catches up. We’re so –

You grit your teeth. “Maybe the first time he and I did this, sure. Not this time. This is a two way street.”

Controlling, he finishes, frowning deeper. Annoyed, you think. Well, tough shit. He hasn’t had to deal with Jake’s clumsy commitment issues for the last ten years.

“Well,” you hiss under your breath, reaching for your trailer door. “I’m so glad you’ve pointed out the obvious. Thank you so much for your teenage insight into my life.” You pull the door open and climb inside. Your arm still hurts, and it hurts more when you start using it to cram your stuff into your gym bag. You’re angry, of course, because you’re jealous. You and he understand this: you miss the naivety of being sixteen and in love with literally the last man on Earth. You miss being unaware of exactly how fucking aloof Jake English can be with your feelings. You miss not knowing exactly how non-committal he is, or how reluctant to change he is. You miss believing you could be the one to make Jake take something other than his steroid fuelled adventures seriously. When you look at the younger you, he looks genuinely crushed. The vulnerability hits your gut hard.

“Stop that,” you find yourself saying.

The younger you does stop that, but not in any way that is preferable. His frowning mouth forms into a thin line, and he closes in on you. With one ghost hand on yours, you are suddenly him. You’re watching Jake shoot imps down with impressive speed. There is a sword in your hand, and a mask on your face to hide the secret, fond grin on your face. You’re sixteen, and you love one boy. He is a complete buffoon and you are smitten. You could go on like this forever.

Then, you are you again: twenty-four and utterly heartbroken.

-

> tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 03:00
> 
> TT: I’ve been thinking about our previous conversation.

It’s three in the morning and has to be at least over a month since you and Rose last spoke. You consider ignoring it and to rightfully nod the fuck off to sleep. At least, you would if you could.

> TT: Is everything alright? It had occurred to me that I perhaps hadn’t taken our last conversation quite as seriously as you would have liked, mostly because it seemed as though you might have been talking horseshit in order to bait me into extrapolating about cognitive dissonance. Additionally, I watched the latest episode of Booty Blastin’ Pistols and noticed you seemed… Uncharacteristically vacant?  
TT: Dare I say, robotic almost?  
TT: timaeusTestified is unavailable for the moment, on account of it being three fifteen in the fucking morning and that *you’re* talking horseshit.  
TT: Dave also mentioned that you seemed especially tired as of late.  
TT: Interesting that you would lead with that while literally keeping me awake.  
TT: Dirk, please, I’m trying to clear my guilty conscience here.  
TT: I’m fine, Rose. In case it somehow slipped your mind, I am a certified workaholic. Who is trying to sleep, for the record.  
TT: Hm.  
TT: I seem to recall some trouble distinguishing dream from reality, in our previous conversation.  
TT: I told you that wasn’t me.  
TT: If you must know, I’m going through some intense emotional strife and without waxing poetic about how fucked up I am about it, I’m using work as a coping mechanism to get over the tragic soap opera that is my latest break up with Jake.  
TT: Oh. I wasn’t aware you had gotten back together.  
TT: Not in an official capacity.  
TT: That’s rough, buddy.  
TT: No kidding.  
TT: Is that all?  
TT: I don’t mean to pry, except that I had tried to use my abilities as a Seer to determine if there was something else wrong, but …  
TT: But?  
TT: I drew a blank.  
TT: Okay?  
TT: You misunderstand. I mean a complete blank. Any future movement involving you was akin to staring into the dark abyss and having only the void of nothingness stare back.  
TT: That is to say, it was almost as though you no longer existed within the reality in which I have access to. Hence my guilty conscience. I had become concerned that perhaps you had taken to chopping off your own head, rather than simply making a joke about it at every given opportunity.  
TT: Oh, this sure is a turn we’re taking, huh?  
TT: Yes. Do you need someone to talk to, Dirk?  
TT: I’m fine, Rose.  
TT: Thank you, though.  
TT: Hm.  
TT: If you decide otherwise, I hope that you know I’m here. In a sincere sense. You have people who care about you. I’m sorry if I gave any impression otherwise.  
TT: You already got one sincere thank you. I don’t have it in me to do it again, no matter how unironically touched I am by the sentiment.  
TT: I really am fine. It’s a break up. People break up all the time.  
TT: You and I both know that we barely qualify as ‘people’, given our love for the theatrical. But I understand.  
TT: I’ll let you sleep then.
> 
> timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]

You don’t sleep. As cliché as that it is, you simply cannot switch your brain off. You think about the intrusive other-thoughts invading every waking moment of your life. You think about how Rose is genuinely concerned that you might off yourself, and if she thinks that, then there is a 90% chance everyone else does. You realise, very soberly, that you are going to have to put strenuous effort into appearing as normal as possible. You should be used to this by now, of course. You have been self-loathing since you developed the cognitive ability to be self-aware. Why should the literal manifestations of all your failures and missteps fuck you up now?

That’s the spirit. It’s Bro, sitting casually near a pony figurine you have. He’s surveying it like a teacher might survey a class project. You like puppets?

“I recently developed somewhat of a self-imposed aversion to them. Why?”

He shrugs, turning away from the pony. The TV schtick works for you?

You grit your teeth. “Yes.”

A thoughtful nod. He’s quiet for a long moment following, long enough that you think he might disappear. Instead, he breaks the silence with: You think I’m the very worst of yourself, right? I can feel it. We’ve got more in common than you think.

It’s almost four in the morning; you’re losing patience and the will to go on. “Please don’t elaborate. I’ve already run the numbers in my head, numerous times.”

Bro’s mouth upturns. He never smiles, you’ve noticed. Not really. You don’t like how I did things.

“I think your method of parenting was demonstrably batshit, yeah.”

Like I said. We have more in common than you think. I was raising a hero.

“Sure. Let’s agree to disagree.”

He nods again, and you close your eyes. Silence follows, and just when you think you might be alone: You ever think about doing porn?

This, as it happens, is the last straw. This is simply more than you can take. You roll over and press your pillow to your ears. You very pointedly squeeze your eyes shut like you’re five years old, and you will and will and will him to leave until you have another blinding headache. You still don’t fall asleep, but Bro eventually quietly dissipates and leaves you alone. By the time it’s time to get up and face the day, you are in the worst mood that you have possibly ever been in your whole life. Worse even, than almost being goddamn murdered by a fish.

You have a long day: you have press with Jake in the early afternoon. Obviously, it will absolutely blow. In the late afternoon, you have an hour break before you and Jake have to meet with producers to discuss Rumble In Da Pumpkin Patch coming back to TV. That’s thirteen hours of putting your acting skills to the test. You add a note to text Dave and Roxy, too, distantly remembering Rose. You think, maybe by the time you get home, tonight you will actually sleep.

(You do.)

-

In your dream, you are looking out over a mossy expanse of untouched Earth. There is a stream below in the valley, shrouded by thick, hanging trees and comforting shadows. You long for the water; your throat is parched, and you’ve been sweating like a sinner in church for the best part of three hours. Your camping gear is heavy on your back, and sure, you’re supposed to stay here and wait, but surely, if you just quickly sprinted down for a drink it would be fine …

You hear a distant shot. Eerily, it all stays very still. You glance, and move to take a step forward –

“Dear fellow, I hope you aren’t abandoning your post!” You freeze. The voice is far enough distance away that when you turn, your guide is a small figure coming up the hill. He has something slung over his shoulder, gun perched in the other arm. You’re amazed a voice can carry this far. Of course, you don’t move an inch. You’re caught. Busted. You’ve no choice but to remain and wait for him to bestow onto you the sweet elixir that is fresh water, whenever his batshit whims dictate to him that it’s time. You’ve gotta respect the hustle: the man knows how to drag a soul to its very limits and then push by them. “Ah, good. Just getting a good eyeful, eh? It’s a beauty! You should see the ruins, my dear boy, simply marvellous … “ He rattles on a little more about treasures; you’re too busy eyeing the deer he has managed to carry up hill, one armed. He catches you eyeing it, eventually. “Ah – you must be ravenous! How callous of me, shall we get to work?”

You nod. You’ve learned all kinds of useful shit in the last month or so. How to hunt; how to butcher. You’ve learned how to treasure hunt, how to build fucking shacks out of literal driftwood. Your guide nods your way, and you both set off to the next camping ground. Flat space, surrounded by trees. He places the deer down while you get to work on unloading the sleeping bags and proper knives. You get to work, hands hardly expert but your focus is unwavering. When you dare to glance his way, he looks very proud of how much you’ve learned.

You feel yourself blushing. You have no idea whose memory this is.

-

The dream sticks with you the same way an unpleasant experience might. You eye each invading ghost splinter as the weeks go on, trying to pinpoint who exactly had a life filled with camping. No one, is the answer. You know this deep down. It seems impossible too that you just had a regular fucking dream, feat some handsome Bear Grylls type. You don’t have regular dreams anymore. You have not had a single normal dream in six months. You are so balls deep in Dirk Striders and all their fuck-ups; your brain no longer has the capacity to fantasise in a recreational manner. It’s --

> turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 17:09
> 
> TG: you ever feel like the universe is trying to tell you something  
TG: like youre minding your own business and the universe be like hey asshole i got some blatant shit to lay on you pay attention bro im only gonna say this 7 billion times  
TT: Actually, yeah, sort of.

More than Dave is aware, actually. You find yourself relieved by the momentary distraction.

> TG: oh youre here  
TT: In some capacity, yes. What exactly is the universe telling you?  
TG: maybe im not what i thought i was  
TG: i know i keep yo-yoing on this but my brain is basically a little man on a unicycle goin round in circles 24/7  
TT: I think you’re selling yourself pretty short. Maybe you should stop over-thinking it?  
TG: bro look who youre speaking to here  
TG: its me the kettle  
TT: Point taken. What brought this bought of gay uncertainty on this time?  
TG: i put my head on karkats lap and he basically called me his best bud  
TG: maybe my thing is that im just a bud  
TT: Have you considered using your words?  
TG: but if i do and then it turns out im not then boom ive just fucked up our whole friendship  
TT: Hard to argue with that logic, dude.  
TG: how did you know with jake  
TT: We’re not exactly the gold standard of how to move from friends to lovers. We’re not even really talking right now?  
TG: youre right i should just keep my mouth shut

You place your phone down for a second, Dave’s mental tomfoolery a thought you will have to come back to in a second. You’re supposed to be working. You are by no means a lawyer, but you still find yourself reading over some contractual paperwork Jane has sent your way. For whatever reason, you seem to be her last point of call on whether deals go through. You get the jist as much as you can: you’re smart, after all. Legal jargon is easy to break down, perhaps because you are accustomed to talking about the same amount of roundabout bullshit. In addition to this, well:

They’re trying to increase the percentage of what they get from Crocker Corps profits. Bro does understand this legal nonsense far better than you, on account of him having actually owned companies, apparently. He’s reading over your shoulder. I did more than make puppet porn, yes. I had a shit load of irons in many fires. One of which was running a highly successful magazine franchise, which entailed an even greater shit load of legal nonsense. Tell her to get new lawyers. She should be making more than what they’re offering.

“Mmm.” You hate this, incidentally, but you tell Jane she’s being ripped off anyway and put the legal shit to bed for the day. Bro picks his moments to manifest, all of them just truly fucking awful. He is an unsettling spectre in your life, and as time goes on, you find that he finds more valid excuses to stick around. To help. I know shit, he says, on account of actually having been a fucking adult. The trouble is, the longer he is around, the more you think about all the stuff Dave told you. You become curious about this one splinter of your soul that turned out so goddamn unfeeling.

He glances at you. That’s a bit of an oversimplification, don’t you think?

“Hm,” you say. After a moment, you decide to bite the goddamn bullet. “You know, Dave thinks that you hated him.”

That does seem like a conclusion he would come to.

“Did you?”

You have seen Bro make – expressions. Insincere expressions of disapproval, mirth; at this question he tilts his head. He’s back at your goddamn pony, and he seems to consider the question seriously before he shrugs, the very motion glitching his visibility. I suppose I did, in a manner of speaking. You balk, a rush of cold something hitting your gut like a stone hitting water. He looks away from the pony and his mouth does that thing again, the not smile. Hate is also an oversimplification. It implies that I didn’t love him.

“It seems like you didn’t.”

He shrugs again. Why don’t you try to understand?

How can you? You have idolised Dave your entire life. You have based your entire purpose and your actions on what would gain his approval. You could understand the actions of a man left to his own devices, left unchecked– you cannot comprehend the notion of hating a child.

Bro’s expression doesn’t change. You realise you have opened a can of worms that perhaps wasn’t yours to open. I always had some vague notion that I existed outside of myself. I think being affiliated with the aspect of Heart made that possible, though I didn’t know the precise details of it when I was a kid. What I did know was that one day the world would end, and that I had the unmoving destiny to raise a hero. As a kid, I had assumed that I would also be a hero – that my innate ability to know things would somehow have a greater purpose than that of a two-bit mentor, which is exactly what I discovered my destiny was going to be. So I was angry, and I was resentful. I had dreams of you – a perception of you, I guess, long before Dave came to me. I wanted that. I wanted purpose; I wanted relevancy. I wanted a destiny that was beyond the role assigned to me by the sheer bad luck of having arrived first on Earth.

“That … Was far more honest than I was expecting?”

He shrugs. Death offers a profound sense of clarity when it comes to the truth. Besides, you are literally fucking me, so what would be the point of spinning a false tale?

“Why would you take that out on him?”

I channelled my resentment into making him the best. I thought, if my destiny is to be a side-character, then I’ll make this kid the main man. You can resent someone and still feel some measure of affection, as it happens. It was kind of cool, passing down all the shit I knew. I had been sort of dreading raising him, because I could not imagine anything lamer than being a fucking dad. So I decided to be a brother. You must be making a face, because there’s a subtle shift in the way he stands. I didn’t see the point in giving him a life that would be considered normal, because it wasn’t going to last anyway. Normalcy would have meant complacency, and would have been meaningless in the pursuit of relevancy. The world will end at that precise moment in time, within the containments of that Universe. I needed him to anticipate danger at every turn. If I only hated him, I would have deliberately primed him for failure. Though, I see the irony in that now.

You’re definitely making a face now. “You traumatised him. I mean, deep psychological shit that he is still unpacking. You fucked his life up, because – because you weren’t going to be the hero?”

I bought him a turntable.

“Oh my fucking god.”

> TG: yo you still there  
TT: Sorry. I have a lot going on here at the moment. Jane’s trying to stick her finger in some pies and I guess I’m the only one with the brains to tell her if the deal is sour.  
TG: makes sense  
TT: Does it?  
TG: not really but whatever floats your boat  
TT: I think you have to confront your boy problems head on, by the way. Sorry I lost the thread there, but at least one of us should make it work with the buffoon we like in a manner that is perhaps more intense than one would ordinarily like a dude.  
TG: yeah i dont think im gonna do that  
TT: Do you want to be happy?  
TG: i am happy thats why i dont wanna do it  
TG: what if by doing i make us both the opposite of happy??? risk is greater than the reward  
TT: Then there’s your answer I guess.  
TG: but what if he meets somebody else and i spend the rest of my life thinking about what might have been you know?? just thinking about what our marriage could have been like or our little mutant children or how every year we could have vacationed in aruba like two little old gay golfers  
TG: maybe not golfers haha  
TG: shit  
TG: i gotta go  
TT: Hmm.
> 
> turntechGodhead [TG] is now an idle chum!

Gotta say, that really is the most disappointing spectacle I ever did see.

Somehow, dealing with the rollercoaster that was Dave’s panic, you had forgotten about his dead bro. You ditch your phone and slump down into the couch, a hand covering your face.

You might have to push him, on this one. He’s never gonna kiss that weird looking alien on his own. I hate to say this, but I raised a complete bottom.

“Somehow, that is the worst thing I’ve heard you say.”

-

When the headache’s start again, they are somehow worse. It’s been a year since they first happened, and in that year you have managed to utilise all your ghost-selves into some manner of useful malady. However, when the headaches return, you feel like you are literally dying. You have never had a full-body headache before, but you know what one feels like now. You feel like you are splitting at the seams; like, not only is your soul burning itself out of your skin and through your eyes, your nose, your mouth, but the soul of all your other lives are doing the same. You scream in agony, alone in your apartment and when you pass out, it’s days later when you awake again. You’re dehydrated. You’re starving. You have a fever, you’re pretty sure.

Maybe you are dying. Maybe the last year has just been a prelude to the fact that your body is literally defying god tier logic and just giving the fuck up.

You are dying, in a manner of speaking. You are also not alone. You can’t bring yourself to look. I’ve been crunching the numbers for days while running your vitals and there is a 98% chance you are about to kick the g*shd*rn bucket. You 100k like sh*t my weak broseph.

“Oh fuck no.”

Oh YES.

You open your eyes, and there he is, ghost-sprite muscles gleaming. You didn’t even think a sprite could be a ghost, but wrong again you guess. He’s grinning. You hate it so much. “Why? Why are you here?”

ARquiusprite floats closer to you. You can see the sweat on his brow and on the very tops of his arms. You can see little rivulets dripping down his nose, by the top lip of his unsettling grin. We all have our time, it seems, and this was mine. Dirk. Dirk. I want you to touch my muscles, but I am aware that it is not possible. Please, 100k at them. 100k at the Dirk. Dirk. 100k at my ghost muscles right now.

“Am I already dead?”

Don’t be absurd. 100k at my muscles Dirk. You wheeze and roll over onto your side. He is so very close. You wish you were dead, actually. Fine. Don’t 100k. Would you like a frank and STRONG analysis of your current condition? I have the facts. I have so many go*shd*rn numbers for you, Dirk. Dirk. 100k at my muscles.

“No, I’m already dead. This is Hell.”

Please cease these e%treme dramatics at once. Dirk. Dirk. Dirk. Oh. You have already passed out again.

= > END ACT TWO.


	3. ACT THREE.

= > ACT THREE.

Unfortunately for you, ARquiusprite does not turn out to have been an awful dream. He is more persistent than Dave’s older brother, hanging around your shit at every perceivable opportunity. He likes your clandestine business meetings with Jane. He likes it when you work out. He absolutely fucking loves it when you’re filming with Jake. You literally cannot get rid of this asshole, no matter how hard you try. The only upside is that he seems to repulse Bro so much that he at least leaves you the fuck alone. The downside is that you now have to navigate Jane’s bid for the presidency on your own. You can barely concentrate, on account of the fact that you are absolutely dying. You take time off work, and spent 90% of your time emailing TV executives about where they’ll be putting their support in a year or so. You network from home on Jane’s behalf, while she attends a lot of meetings, a lot of lunches, and has a lot of dinners.

ARquiusprite does remind you one piece of useful information, which is that now you have what feels like a million splinter ghosts, you also have more minds to spread the burden across. So you try doing that again. It works well enough that you can get out of bed.

The worst is yet to come, I’m afraid. By my calculations, you have manifested all possible iterations of Dirk as we understand you.

You’ve just emailed your producer about Jane. Jake has been trying to pester you for an hour. “Yes, you’ve made it perfectly clear that I’m dying.”

Yes. I am not referring to your impending death. I am referring to whom I have preceded, my e%ceptionally pallid looking man.

You slide a hand under your glasses and rub your eyes. “What?”

You will have more headaches. I suggest you stock the f*ck up on STRONG medication. 

“Great.”

-

You can’t remember the last time you saw Roxy. This thought occurs to you while you’re examining some of your personal effects. You can’t remember the last time you thought of Roxy, now that you are actually thinking about her. You frown and – think about moving on. You have to actively work at feeling bad about this fact. On thinking of Roxy, you think of Dave, too. You think of your other extended group of friends, of which you have you only seen Jane in person. You stop what you’re doing, pick up your phone and realise you have barely seen anyone who isn’t you in over a year.

You open pesterchum, hovering over Roxy’s online chumhandle. You hover for a long time, and then put your phone back down. You’ve had a headache for weeks. You haven’t really slept in weeks either. You’ve been thinking about writing a will, which is why you’ve been sorting your personal effects. It all feels very defeatist. You feel very defeated.

You really gotta man the fuck up.

“Oh. You’re back.” It’s been over a year, and you still don’t quite understand what is happening to you.

Yes you do. You’re refusing to acknowledge what is right in front of you because you’re too much of a coward to accept that it’s necessary.

“Could you say something that makes some amount of sense, instead of your usual bullshit? I’m literally dying, dude. Do you think you could be less of an asshole for five fucking seconds?” You are at the end of your tether too. Bro is sitting cross-legged beside you, looking perhaps slightly more intense than you’ve seen him before.

You’re not dying in the way that you think you’re dying. That horse-loving weirdo you made is playing up the theatrics to mess with you. But you already knew that.

“Dude,” you find yourself saying. Bro has inched closer to you. “I am barely hanging on some days. My brain feels like it’s fighting to stay whole. If you have something useful to say, please just fucking say it.”

Are you happy here?

You groan. Not this shit again. “Please, do not ask me about porn again.”

No. I mean are you satisfied with this ending? This is mostly a rhetorical question. I know what the answer is. You’ve known it for a while too, but you’ve been reluctant to admit it. It’s why I pushed you to take on Jane’s political issues: it’s a temporary solution to open your mind to the bigger problem facing you and this reality.

“Which is?”

You are no longer relevant.

“Oh, fantastic. Pass me the ice for the sick burn.”

I mean this in a much more literal way than you understand. No one here is relevant. We lack conflict, and without conflict, we lack motivation. The story of our lives has hit a point of textual deficiency. You are dying in the same way all stories die when they end. The issue is, this ending fucking sucks. Life without conflict is boring. Life without the necessary motivation to keep striving towards a goal is boring. Not to mention, what did you even do? What did Dave do? You are dying because you are no longer important. You are dying because you had your importance taken from you in the last leg, by some bucktoothed motherfucker who farts himself across reality.

“I cannot fucking believe –“

You’ve known this for a while. It’s why you’ve allowed yourself to drift away from the people you considered friends. You recognise their own irrelevancy too, and it repulses you. I know this, because it repulses me. It doesn’t have to be this way. You have a choice to make.

Bro is so close. You look at him, and in the corner of your eye, you see that the room is entirely filled with you’s. They’re everywhere, all of them so close. When did they all get there? How have they all fit? You feel disorientated; spun off yoir axis. You can’t breathe; the air is leaving the room fast. Your head is splitting open again. “What … What choice?”

Bro places a hand on your shoulder. Will you die, or will you Ascend?

Later, you will acknowledge that this was not actually a choice at all.

You choose to ascend. Another Dirk touches your back. You are filled with a lifetime of memories, and at the same time another Dirk does the same. One after the other, they pile onto you, life after life seeping back into your head. The pain is so unbearable that you collapse to the ground, clutching your head with your fingers threaded tight in your hair. Your glasses fall from your face and you don’t care; the assault of lives not yours pours into you and you scream until your throat is too hoarse anymore. You’re drowning, the air gone again from your lungs. Your head cannot split any more than it already has. Vaguely, you are aware that you might be fucking glowing. Vaguely, you are also aware that you might be dying over and over again, the pendulum neither swinging Just nor Heroic.

You lie there for what feels like weeks, until the very last Dirk presses a hand to your forehead. When it’s over, only Bro and ARquiusprite are left. Their eyes are on you; you somehow know this despite your own eyes being shut. You think that your eyes are shut. You think you might be dying again. Bro places his hand back onto you and you –

> You’re standing inside a house. The house is not yours, and you don’t think you’ll be back here again. You have the sense that you have just been humiliated; there is a deep shame in your very soul. You ball your hands into fists. The living room is a mess of blue statues and old timey portraits. They’re all fucking blue. By the lit fireplace is a man. You recognise him, not because of the memory, but because of your dream. He’s older now, and you think you are too. He looks –
> 
> He looks sorry. You are so angry. You understand at once what this is: a rejection.
> 
> “My boy, I’m flattered, but you’re just a lad,” he says, and you turn before he can finish. You walk right the fuck out of the room, into the large, extravagant hallway. There’s a girl waiting by the staircase, and she reaches for you. She has your coat in your hands.
> 
> “Di –“
> 
> “Don’t,” you say, grabbing your coat from her hands. “Rox, don’t. I’m done. I’m done with this whole thing. I’m going back to Texas, and I’ll do it on my own.”
> 
> You understand to some degree that you had a bigger plan, once. Not anymore. She looks crestfallen. You understand that as kids, you and she assumed you would face the end of the world together. You know better now. Not only are you not going to be the hero you wanted to be, but you are also not good enough for Jake fucking Harley. You won’t be pitied. You have wasted your time. You don’t need sentiment to face the apocalypse. All you need is Lil Cal and the kid. You’ll do this on your own.

The hallway blends into your room. You hear I told you we had more in common than you realised, and then Bro is gone.

Well. You understand that he is gone in the sense that he is no longer directly in front of you. He exists now, like the other Dirk’s, as part of your ascended consciousness. Your head is still splitting. ARquiusprite has floated close to you again. You realise he must be next.

Not quite. I have two roles to fulfill before you and I become one e%tremely STRONG and e%quisitely handsome whole. I warned you about those headaches, bro. I told you.

He did warn you about those headaches.

It takes you a few days for you to overcome them. That is, it takes a long time for you to become one whole Dirk, sigular, rather than thousands of Dirk’s drowning your brain in information. You have a better understanding of things, at the end of it. You understand the necessity of it. You understand the potential of knowing so much. To some degree, you even understand Bro’s position on relevancy. In fact, you actually cannot stop thinking about relevancy. You cannot stop thinking about all the mistakes you now have intimate knowledge of; you cannot stop thinking about your own timeline, or the victory you achieved through literal fucking shenigans.

When you’re well enough, you decide to confront the obvious loose end: ARquiusprite, heavy breathing over your prized pony figurine. “Yo, cut that shit out.”

Apologies, he says. He doesn’t stop. It is a handsome steed. You grimace; he is unphased. You have become accustomed to the burden of ascending. It was important that you absorb the humans before you attempted to assimilate with me. Oh. What a concept. I’m sweating.

“Dude, you are literally always sweating.”

Yes. Quite. I wanted you to be aware of what you will be able to do once the ascension is complete. That is to say, I am about to rock your f*cking world. Are you ready?

You think this will always be tedious. Having this as a permanent part of you also feels tedious. Maybe, you don’t have to –

You do. Your ultimate self is incomplete. It is my duty to complete it, but first I must blow your third eye wide f*cking open my fleshy compadre.

“Please, get to the point.”

Do you notice anything different about me?

You frown. “Did you do something to your voice?”

In a manner of speaking. Pay attention, cretin. I am showing you what it means to be your ultimate self, on account of me technically also being the ultimate version of you.

“How are you doing that?”

Skillz, bro. Get ready, I am about to shake this sh*t up.

ARQUIUSPRITE  Do you understand the vast potential of your power as a hero of Heart?

You don’t fully understand. You probably won’t entirely understand until you and he have become one. The very thought makes you wish you had actually died.

ARQUIUSPRITE:  Fine. Then let’s move onto the final chapter of this epic  
ARQUIUSPRITE:  I mentioned that there were more beyond me  
ARQUIUSPRITE:  You wrongly assumed that I meant the absorption process  
ARQUIUSPRITE:  Though that was necessary for what comes next  
ARQUIUSPRITE:  Because your sh*t is about to be wrecked, sorry for all the f*cking profanity lately  
ARQUIUSPRITE:  It’s just so much, bro  
ARQUIUSPRITE:  You’ve got one last headache to come  
ARQUIUSPRITE:  And  
ARQUIUSPRITE:  It’s gonna be a doozy  
ARQUIUSPRITE:  In fact, you might say  
ARQUIUSPRITE:  It’s already here

“Seriously, how the fuck are you doi-“

-

You think you black out. Your ears are ringing; there is a whiteness to your vision that is terrifying. You think also, there are so many lights? Just a horrible light show that sends the circuits of your brain into overdrive. You hear a horrible sounds that sounds like … a honk? A laughter? Somehow you are still on your feet, you are vaguely aware of this. When the whiteness fades, there is so much light left where you stand. You see ARquiusprite turned to the light show, sweating profusely. Within the light you see one – no, three figures? You see –

You see –

You understand.

CALIBORN: SURPRISE. BITCH. I BET YOU THOUGHT. YOU HAD SEEN. THE LAST OF ME.

GAMZEE: honk. :o)

CALIBORN: SILENCE. CLOWN.

CALIBORN: YOU. UGLY MUSCLE SPRITE. COME HERE. IT IS TIME TO ROCK. THIS IDIOTS WORLD. WITH THE MAGNIFICENT SIGHT. OF OUR FINAL FORM. 

CALIBORN: AND THEN. WE WILL SLIP INSIDE HIM. TO BECOME ONE. 

Oh. You really hate that.

CALIBORN: BEHOLD. DIRK. UNDERSTAND WHAT IT MEANS. TO BE SO FUCKING COOL. BEFORE YOU SUCCUMB TO YOUR SAD. HANDSOME FLESHY FORM. FOR ALL ETERNITY. 

In Caliborn’s arms, Lil Cal is smiling at you, blue eyes beckoning. Gamzee fades into Caliborn; you see ARquiusprite reach out and do the same. He grows taller than you, Lil Cal still in his arms. You understand what you must do, and you resist. You resist and still your body moves forward. You resist and still your hand reaches out for Caliborn’s grotesque hulking form. You resist and fight and scream, and your hand still touches him. You hear: we’re already here, and then it begins. Agony like you have never felt before. Aspects that are not yours invading the very core of yourself, turning you maroon, red, purple, blue. White. Green. Black.

You stop resisting. You are whole.

-

“I have good news,” says Jane. You’re sitting in her Crocker Corp office, looking at so many fucking stocks. She looks pleased as punch. She should be; she’s just secured an important sponsor for her forthcoming election campaign. All very hush, hush, of course. It’ll be another year yet before you announce officially. “We have our last corporate sponsor secured. We’re doing this, Dirk.”

You allow a smile to form on your face. “We’re making this happen?”

Jane grins. “Oh, I’m so excited I could – I could simply burst!” You know that what she will actually do is wait until you’re gone, and then take out the Juju she has stashed in her top drawer. You know a lot of things now, actually, but you especially know this. Your pal Jane loves a bit of trickster nonsense to celebrate. You can’t stay for it. You have to get to set.

“Sorry I have to cut the celebrations short, the sordid temptation of booty shorts calls. You know how it is.”

“Oh,” she says, still beaming. “Are you filming again already? It seems like you just went on hiatus. Well – I won’t keep you. I’ll see you next week?”

You nod. She kisses your cheek on your way out of the door, and you hop into the car waiting for you. You have a busy year ahead of you, all of which is top secret. Even Jane isn’t aware of most of it. Filming is tedious and mostly arbitrary, but it keeps eyes away from what you might have going on behind the scenes. You tolerate Jake, having accepted that he has his uses. He will be essential, later. And, in the meantime? He’s good practice.

After all, every good author has to start building their narrative somewhere.

= > END ACT THREE.

-

= > Begin Epilogue?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a sort of author-compendium to this, the context of grandpa Harley and Roxy's involvement is the implication that Bro involved himself with them for a short time. Long enough to give companionship a try, get a crush, and ultimately be rejected, sending him back into self-imposed isolation. I would say the involvement lasted just short of a year, when he and Roxy were somewhere between 17-21, which would fit with Hiveswap's timeline of events.
> 
> The other implication is that Cal has been demonstrably involved in shaping his character, and has by and large been taunting him with Dirk's life in the post-scratch timeline as one of the means to do this. Further more on that, you could infer that Cal has been aware of his ultimate destiny to become the ultimate Dirk, and it was important to have Bro be on his (and LE's) side when it came to shaping the Whole. Obviously, in addition to this, Bro on his own might have ended up this way anyway without the balance of other people to cancel out the very worst of his traits.


	4. EPILOGUE.

= > Begin Epilogue.

Hm? Oh. Ha! Not those epilogues. The future is still the future, and it’s approximately eight months away. On this day in the present, there is no choice to be had. There is simply just existing. Waiting.

And the sound of distant wailing. A child’s cry, echoing in a manner quite like a siren, three rooms down. On her couch, Rose sighs. She is three chapters deep into her latest book, and she waits momentarily for Kanaya to work her magic. For some reason, the grubs just absolutely love her, which Rose gets. She loves Kanaya too, after all. There is simply no one greater than her beautiful wife. She’s not jealous. The fact that the grubs begin screaming the moment Rose even looks at them is, actually, quite inconsequential. Meaningless, in fact. Their own kids, when they have them, will love Rose the most. She’s certain of this, on account of being a Seer and also being the Cool Mom. It is sometimes the only thing which keeps her going through being absolutely owned every day by literal babies.

The crying stops a few moments later. She waits, just in case it’s a false alarm. When it’s clear that it isn’t, she relaxes, and thinks she hears Kanaya singing softly down the hall. She finds herself smiling. This would be a fitting end, perhaps. A peaceful happily ever after, where a wife waits for her troll bride to retire for the night. It would be, in Rose’s mind, a perfect ending to a perfect story. However, this has only just become her story.

She waits, but Kanaya will be a long while yet. Kids – especially alien kids – can be so needy at bed time. And, after all, they’re adapting to a human schedule. Rose would feel more sorry for them if one hadn’t puked on her just this morning. She turns her attention back to the book, eyes barely glazing over the words. Distraction has been coming easily to her, lately. She finds herself drifting off to the same conundrum that has been plaguing her for months. The one thing she cannot seem to put her finger on, no matter how many times she tries to dwell on it.

With a sigh, she closes the book and places it aside. The story is basically nonsense anyway. Not enough plot; not enough conflict to drive the narrative forward. Rose appreciates a good story. She appreciates when careful consideration has been put into the content. Her own prose, however dense, have never been half-assed the way this particular story has. Why, she thinks, did young adult fiction have to decide vampires were no longer cool? Why did they give up on sexy werewolves? On hot robots, or tempting sirens? Alas. A lost genre. There is simply no saving it.

Frowning, she stretches her neck and then draws her legs into a cross-legged position. She prepares her meditation position, and closes her eyes. She will need all her concentration for this. Kanaya will be another twenty minutes, she thinks. Twenty minutes to give this thing one last, good college try. She inhales deeply and holds for eight seconds; on the eighth, she lets it go. She repeats five times. On the sixth time, she focuses all her power on the problem she has not been able to solve. The path which has been blind to her. The closed, vast blackness.

She focuses on Dirk, and there, in the future, she sees only gaping darkness. It sucks her in, as it has done every time. She pushes harder, and harder and then, at the very edge of the darkness, she at last sees the Light. She sees him – she sees –

White hot pain cracks along the back of her skull lightening fast. It splits open four ways, light pouring out. She sees so much. She sees everything.

And then, Rose Lalonde sees only black.


End file.
